Fingertips

Whoever said "A master craftsman leaves no trace" unfortunately took their own advice and left no claim to the quote. I stumbled across the idea in an introduction to Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, in which translator Thomas Cleary explained that the maxim expressed the artistic ideal of Chinese Zen Buddhists. While I haven’t meditated under a Bhodi tree on this idea, it instinctively clashes with a quality I am drawn to: the tactile, passionate, messy expression of art, the kind of art that leaves the trace of being a representation, and where the craftsman is not only found by the signature in the corner, but by the fingerprints on the canvas.

What I mean by fingerprints are stylistic intentions that make us aware of the filmmaker: Terry Gilliam’s styrofoam sets, Scorsese’s sweltering Raging Bull cinematography, and Godard’s violent jump cuts, bombastic devices that can simply serve the story or actively topple the mainstream pillars. But even a hundred miles in the other direction, towards the cold, hard, objective films of Stanley Kubrick, an idiosyncratic style, thematically and technically, is visible even across multiple genres.

These traces of the filmmaker don’t necessarily work every time, but even the attempt to strike out in a new direction is admirable because it is the qualifying difference between Art and Function. As Oscar Wilde wrote (and probably quipped many times at many parties): “All art is quite useless”. A functional item (a car, a microwave, a chair) need not have a trace of a craftsman because it ultimately has to operate. A table can take a thousand different designs, but it can only be redesigned so far until you can’t balance your breakfast on it. Art isn’t constrained in the same way, a film can be as well plotted and straight as Die Hard (1988) or an audio-sensory experience like Jarman’s Blue (1993).

Within the Zen ideal is an implicit perfectionism, as if to leave no trace was to discover a piece of art fully formed, but perfection, even the idea of it, is elusive. In Ben Lerner’s The Hatred of Poetry (1979), he suggests that the Scottish poet William Topaz McGonagall, acknowledged as the worst poet of all time, gives us a clearer idea of perfection than lauded poetry can by being so removed from it. Bad movies can illuminate our half-glimmering idea of perfection, and the fingerprint quality is in abundance as every poorly composed shot, ill-placed edit, or flimsy set shows us a ‘making-of’ in action, (bad magicians show the cards up their sleeves); but imperfection doesn’t have to be synonymous with inferiority. Instead, there is a Japanese Zen Buddhist axiom I do agree with, wabi-sabi, the acceptance that nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect. I think this is what is so attractive about the scrapes, burns and missing reels of film deterioration added as aesthetic; it makes the film negatives more human, conjuring the ghostly hands the film has passed through over years.

An intended ‘imperfection’ was part of the Navajo rug weavers practice, adding a ch’ihónít’i, or spirit line, so the weaver’s spirit could safely exit the rug. Imperfections allow the spirit to escape, but also let us in, something author Richard Flanagan touches upon in Gould’s Book of Fish (2001):

“Rough work with a soul will always be open to all, including condemnation and reviling, while fine work housing emptiness is closed to all insults and is easily ivied over with paid praises”.

Ask a film geek for a top ten list and they will clarify, “The Top Ten ever or my top ten?”. The Godfather makes it on The Top Ten list, but putting it on your list is like edging out Coke for water on a list of your favourite drinks. The quality Gilliam, Scorsese and Godard bring to their work is a feeling of ‘made-ness’, evoking pure joy in the creative act. The art closest to us is the art where we feel closest to the artist. Isn’t this why we love Wes Anderson’s tracking shots, the feedback of the Rolling Stones’ amps, Old Bull Lee’s cut-up novels, Van Gogh’s The Starry Night and Bill Sienkiewicz’s scrawling comics?

Perhaps the urge for tactility has always been inherent, since humans painted on cave walls. Before photography, mirrors, and the written signature, handprints, like the ones found adorning the cave walls of Lascaux, were an individual's identity. Our ancestors’ landscape was explored and made sense of through this tactile interaction. It is fitting that the 21st century landscape is named after a similar tactile exploration: ‘Digital’ derives from the Latin digitus meaning finger. While this landscape should be an ideal place to put our handprint, we instead see it filled daily with advertisement, vitriol, and individuals chasing fame for fifteen seconds (Andy Warhol greatly overestimated our attention span).

Howard Hawks once said "there are about thirty plots in all of drama. They’ve all been done by very good people. If you can think of a new way to tell that plot, you’re pretty good. But if you can do characters, you can forget about the plot". The internet has shown that the artist can, in many ways, be the art, as evidenced by my favourite piece to come out of the cyber age. Bo Burnham began as a YouTuber who wrote and performed comedy songs from his bedroom, generated millions of views and then transitioned to live stand-up. Due to increasingly frequent on-stage panic attacks, Bo retreated from performance. After several years, Bo prepared to return to the stage when, in an ironic twist, Covid-19 shut him away.

Born out of isolation is a 90 minute film, set in one room, written, directed, edited and performed by Burnham and titled Inside. The film is unclassifiable, but undeniably shaped by the internet, consisting of sketches, fourth wall breaks and video commentary.

It was made without commission, worked on quietly for over a year, and free of any expectation or rules. Inside is by turns extremely funny, achingly melancholic, and uncomfortably naked because the creator is the focus. He shares his concerns about interconnectivity and isolation, being an entertainer and background noise while we eat dinner, hopeful that art is salvation while knowing it is inadequate.

What I loved most about the movie, or stand up special, or YouTube episode, or whatever magnificent thing Burnham has created, is that it is a courageously messy affair. The ‘stage’ is always cleared for the show, but in the light of day Bo lives amongst the wreckage of camera equipment. When performing, the light show and execution is slick, but he also leaves in outtakes of these recordings. And while Bo is strong minded in the beginning, engaging in a project as a productive pastime, he suffers an ongoing decline and clutches at the work as a lifeline. While the internet strives for a sterile, photoshopped, super-edited perfectionism, Burnham embraces a wabi-sabi; he’s a mess because the world is. Bo isn’t chasing trends for views, or signing deals for monetisation, or spewing vitriol in an echo chamber, he’s expressing himself honestly and directly: he's putting his handprint on the cave wall without the need to erase everybody else’s. I hope it inspires others to think differently about the opportunity the internet poses as a venue to be messy and expressive, rather than disappear without a trace behind a photoshopped facade. I could go on and on about why it means so much to me, but like all great pieces of art, the exact reason is elusive. I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Jack Wightman occasionally leaves his home either for coffee, the cinema or to browse a bookshop. If you don’t happen to find him there, please send for help – he will most likely be trapped under his book collection. You can read more of his writing at justonemansopinion.org.uk

Bryony Moores O’Sullivan is a founding member of Chasing Cow Productions and a Theatre Practice graduate from the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama, who specialises in puppetry, poetry, and illustration.